They reached out their tenebrous hands, first to touch Ki and then to take her. I backed up a step, looked to my right, and saw more ghosts - some coming out of busted windows, some slipping from redbrick chimneys. Holding Kyra in my arms, I ran for the Ghost House.
"Get him!" Jared Devore yelled, startled. "Get him, boys! Get that punk! G.o.dd.a.m.nit!"
I sprinted up the wooden steps, vaguely aware of something soft rubbing against my cheek - Ki"s little stuffed dog, still clutched in one of her hands. I wanted to look back and see how close they were getting, but I didn"t dare. If I stumbled - "Hey!" the woman in the ticket booth cawed. She had clouds of gingery hair, makeup that appeared to have been applied with a garden-trowel, and mercifully resembled no one I knew. She was just a carny, just pa.s.sing through this benighted place. Lucky her. "Hey, mister, you gotta buy a ticket!"
No time, lady, no time.
"Stop him!" Devore shouted. "He"s a G.o.ddam punk thief! That ain"t his young "un he"s got! Stop him!" But no one did and I rushed into the darkness of the Ghost House with Ki in my arms.
Beyond the entry was a pa.s.sage so narrow I had to turn sideways to get down it. Phosph.o.r.escent eyes glared at us in the gloom. Up ahead was a growing wooden rumble, a loose sound with a clacking chain beneath it. Behind us came the clumsy thunder of caulk-equipped loggers" boots rushing up the stairs outside. The ginger-haired carny was hollering at them now, she was telling them that if they broke anything inside they"d have to give up the goods. "You mind me, you d.a.m.ned rubes!" she shouted. "That place is for kids, not the likes of you!"
The rumble was directly ahead of us. Something was turning. At first I couldn"t make out what it was.
"Put me down, Mike!" Kyra sounded excited. "I want to go through by myself!"
I set her on her feet, then looked nervously back over my shoulder. The bright light at the entryway was blocked out as they tried to cram in.
"You a.s.ses!" Devore yelled. "Not all at the same time! Sweet weeping Jesus!" There was a smack and someone cried out. I faced front just in time to see Kyra dart through the rolling barrel, holding her hands out for balance. Incredibly, she was laughing.
I followed, got halfway across, then went down with a thump.
"Ooops!" Kyra called from the far side, then giggled as I tried to get up, fell again, and was tumbled all the way over. The bandanna fell out of my bib pocket. A bag of h.o.r.ehound candy dropped from another pocket. I tried to look back, to see if they had got themselves sorted out and were coming. When I did, the barrel hurled me through another inadvertent somersault. Now I knew how clothes felt in a dryer.
I crawled to the end of the barrel, got up, took Ki"s hand, and let her lead us deeper into the Ghost House. We got perhaps ten paces before white bloomed around her like a lily and she screamed. Some animal - something that sounded like a huge cat - hissed heavily. Adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream and I was about to jerk her backward into my arms again when the hiss came once more. I felt hot air on my ankles, and Ki"s dress made that bell-shape around her legs again. This time she laughed instead of screaming.
"Go, Ki!" I whispered. "Fast."
We went on, leaving the steam-vent behind. There was a mirrored corridor where we were reflected first as squat dwarves and then as scrawny ectomorphs with long white vampire features. I had to urge Kyra on again; she wanted to make faces at herself. Behind us, I heard cursing lumberjacks trying to negotiate the barrel. I could hear Devore cursing, too, but he no longer seemed so . . . well, so eminent eminent.
There was a sliding-pole that landed us on a big canvas pillow. This made a loud farting noise when we hit it, and Ki laughed until fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, rolling around and kicking her feet in glee. I got my hands under her arms and yanked her up.
"Don"t taggle yer own quartermack," she said, then laughed again. Her fear seemed to have entirely departed.
We went down another narrow corridor. It smelled of the fragrant pine from which it had been constructed. Behind one of these walls, two "ghosts" were clanking chains as mechanically as men working on a shoe-factory a.s.sembly line, talking about where they were going to take their girls tonight and who was going to bring some "red-eye engine," whatever that was. I could no longer hear anyone behind us. Kyra led the way confidently, one of her little hands holding one of my big ones, pulling me along. When we came to a door painted with glowing flames and marked THIS WAY TO HADES, she pushed through it with no hesitation at all. Here red isingla.s.s topped the pa.s.sage like a tinted skylight, imparting a rosy glow I thought far too pleasant for Hades.
We went on for what felt like a very long time, and I realized I could no longer hear the calliope, the hearty bong! bong! of the Test Your Strength bell, or Sara and the Red-Tops. Nor was that exactly surprising. We must have walked a quarter of a mile. How could any county fair Ghost House be so big? of the Test Your Strength bell, or Sara and the Red-Tops. Nor was that exactly surprising. We must have walked a quarter of a mile. How could any county fair Ghost House be so big?
We came to three doors then, one on the left, one on the right, and one set into the end of the corridor. On one a little red tricycle was painted. On the door facing it was my green IBM typewriter. The picture on the door at the end looked older, somehow - faded and dowdy. It showed a child"s sled. That"s Scooter Larribee"s That"s Scooter Larribee"s, I thought. That"s the one Devore stole That"s the one Devore stole. A rash of gooseflesh broke out on my arms and back.
"Well," Kyra said brightly, "here are our toys." She lifted Strickland, presumably so he could see the red trike.
"Yeah," I said. "I guess so."
"Thank you for taking me away," she said. "Those were scary men but the spookyhouse was fun. Nighty-night. Stricken says nighty-night, too." It still came out sounding exotic - tiu tiu - like the Vietnamese word for sublime happiness. - like the Vietnamese word for sublime happiness.
Before I could say another word, she had pushed open the door with the trike on it and stepped through. It snapped shut behind her, and as it did I saw the ribbon from her hat. It was hanging out of the bib pocket of the overalls I was wearing. I looked at it a moment, then tried the k.n.o.b of the door she had just gone through. It wouldn"t turn, and when I slapped my hand against the wood it was like slapping some hard and fabulously dense metal. I stepped back, then c.o.c.ked my head in the direction from which we"d come. There was nothing. Total silence.
This is the between-time, This is the between-time, I thought I thought. When people talk about "slipping through the cracks," this is what they really mean. This is the place where they really go.
You better get going yourself You better get going yourself, Jo told me. If you don"t want to find yourself trapped here, maybe forever, you better get going yourself If you don"t want to find yourself trapped here, maybe forever, you better get going yourself.
I tried the k.n.o.b of the door with the typewriter painted on it. It turned easily. Behind it was another narrow corridor - more wooden walls and the sweet smell of pine. I didn"t want to go in there, something about it made me think of a long coffin, but there was nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. I went, and the door slammed shut behind me.
Christ, Christ, I thought. I thought. I"m in the dark, in a closed-in place . . . it"s time for one of Michael Noonan" s world-famous panic attacks. I"m in the dark, in a closed-in place . . . it"s time for one of Michael Noonan" s world-famous panic attacks.
But no bands clamped themselves over my chest, and although my heart-rate was high and my muscles were still jacked on adrenaline, I was under control. Also, I realized, it wasn"t entirely dark. I could only see a little, but enough to make out the walls and the plank floor. I wrapped the dark blue ribbon from Ki"s hat around my wrist, tucking one end underneath so it wouldn"t come loose. Then I began to move forward. But no bands clamped themselves over my chest, and although my heart-rate was high and my muscles were still jacked on adrenaline, I was under control. Also, I realized, it wasn"t entirely dark. I could only see a little, but enough to make out the walls and the plank floor. I wrapped the dark blue ribbon from Ki"s hat around my wrist, tucking one end underneath so it wouldn"t come loose. Then I began to move forward.
I went on for a long time, the corridor turning this way and that, seemingly at random. I felt like a microbe slipping through an intestine. At last I came to a pair of wooden arched doorways. I stood before them, wondering which was the correct choice, and realized I could hear Bunter"s bell faintly through the one to my left. I went that way and as I walked, the bell grew steadily louder. At some point the sound of the bell was joined by the mutter of thunder. The autumn cool had left the air and it was hot again - stifling. I looked down and saw that the bib.a.l.l.s and clodhopper shoes were gone. I was wearing thermal underwear and itchy socks.
Twice more I came to choices, and each time I picked the opening through which I could hear Bunter"s bell. As I stood before the second pair of doorways, I heard a voice somewhere in the dark say quite clearly: "No, the President"s wife wasn"t hit. That"s his blood on her stockings."
I walked on, then stopped when I realized my feet and ankles no longer itched, that my thighs were no longer sweating into the longjohns. I was wearing the Jockey shorts I usually slept in. I looked up and saw I was in my own living room, threading my way carefully around the furniture as you do in the dark, trying like h.e.l.l not to stub your stupid toe. I could see a little better; faint milky light was coming in through the windows. I reached the counter which separates the living room from the kitchen and looked over it at the waggy-cat clock. It was five past five.
I went to the sink and turned on the water. When I reached for a gla.s.s I saw I was still wearing the ribbon from Ki"s straw hat on my wrist. I unwound it and put it on the counter between the coffee-maker and the kitchen TV. Then I drew myself some cold water, drank it down, and made my way cautiously along the north-wing corridor by the pallid yellow glow of the bathroom nightlight. I peed (you-rinated, I could hear Ki saying), then went into the bedroom. The sheets were rumpled, but the bed didn"t have the orgiastic look of the morning after my dream of Sara, Mattie, and Jo. Why would it? I"d gotten out of it and had myself a little sleepwalk. An extraordinarily vivid dream of the Fryeburg Fair.
Except that was bulls.h.i.t, and not just because I had the blue silk ribbon from Ki"s hat. None of it had the quality of dreams on waking, where what seemed plausible becomes immediately ridiculous and all the colors - both those bright and those ominous - fade at once. I raised my hands to my face, cupped them over my nose, and breathed deeply. Pine. When I looked, I even saw a little smear of sap on one pinky finger.
I sat on the bed, thought about dictating what I"d just experienced into the Memo-Scriber, then flopped back on the pillows instead. I was too tired. Thunder rumbled. I closed my eyes, began to drift away, and then a scream ripped through the house. It was as sharp as the neck of a broken bottle. I sat up with a yell, clutching at my chest.
It was Jo. I had never heard her scream like that in our life together, but I knew who it was, just the same. "Stop hurting her!" I shouted into the darkness. "Whoever you are, stop hurting her! stop hurting her!"
She screamed again, as if something with a knife, clamp, or hot poker took a malicious delight in disobeying me. It seemed to come from a distance this time, and her third scream, while just as agonized as the first two, was farther away still. They were diminishing as the little boy"s sobbing had diminished.
A fourth scream floated out of the dark, then Sara was silent. Breathless, the house breathed around me. Alive in the heat, aware in the faint sound of dawn thunder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I was finally able to get into the zone, but couldn"t do anything once I got there. I keep a steno pad handy for notes - character lists, page references, date chronologies - and I doodled in there a little bit, but the sheet of paper in the IBM remained blank. There was no thundering heartbeat, no throbbing eyes or difficulty breathing - no panic attack, in other words - but there was no story, either. Andy Drake, John Shackleford, Ray Garraty, the beautiful Regina Whiting . . . they stood with their backs turned, refusing to speak or move. The ma.n.u.script was sitting in its accustomed place on the left side of the typewriter, the pages held down with a pretty chunk of quartz I"d found on the lane, but nothing was happening. Zilch.
I recognized an irony here, perhaps even a moral. For years I had fled the problems of the real world, escaping into various Narnias of my imagination. Now the real world had filled up with bewildering thickets, there were things with teeth in some of them, and the wardrobe was locked against me.
Kyra Kyra, I had printed, putting her name inside a scalloped shape that was supposed to be a cabbage rose. Below it I had drawn a piece of bread with a beret tipped rakishly on the top crust. Noonan"s conception of French toast. The letters L.B. surrounded with curlicues. A shirt with a rudimentary duck on it. Beside this I had printed QUACK QUACK. Below QUACK QUACK I had written Ought to fly away "Bon Voyage." Ought to fly away "Bon Voyage."
At another spot on the sheet I had written Dean, Auster, Dean, Auster, and and Devore. Devore. They were the ones who had seemed the most there, the most dangerous. Because they had descendants? But surely all seven of those jacks must, mustn"t they? In those days most families were whoppers. And where had They were the ones who had seemed the most there, the most dangerous. Because they had descendants? But surely all seven of those jacks must, mustn"t they? In those days most families were whoppers. And where had I I been? I had asked, but Devore hadn"t wanted to say. been? I had asked, but Devore hadn"t wanted to say.
It didn"t feel any more like a dream at nine-thirty on a sullenly hot Sunday morning. Which left exactly what? Visions? Time-travel? And if there was a purpose to such travel, what was it? What was the message, and who was trying to send it? I remembered clearly what I"d said just before pa.s.sing from the dream in which I had sleepwalked out to Jo"s studio and brought back my typewriter: I don"t believe these lies. I don"t believe these lies. Nor would I now. Until I could see at least some of the truth, it might be safer to believe nothing at all. Nor would I now. Until I could see at least some of the truth, it might be safer to believe nothing at all.
At the top of the sheet upon which I was doodling, in heavily stroked letters, I printed the word DANGER! DANGER!, then circled it. From the circle I drew an arrow to Kyra"s name. From her name I drew an arrow to Ought to fly away "Bon Voyage" Ought to fly away "Bon Voyage" and added and added MATTIE MATTIE.
Below the bread wearing the beret I drew a little telephone. Above it I put a cartoon balloon with R-R-RINGG! in it. As I finished this, the cordless phone rang. It was sitting on the deck rail. I circled MATTIE MATTIE and picked up the phone. and picked up the phone.
"Mike?" She sounded excited. Happy. Relieved.
"Yeah," I said. "How are you?"
"Great!" she said, and I circled L.B. on my pad.
"Lindy Briggs called ten minutes ago - I just got off the phone with her.
Mike, she"s giving me my job back! Isn"t that wonderful?"
Sure. And wonderful how it would keep her in town. I crossed out Ought to fly away "Bon Voyage," Ought to fly away "Bon Voyage," knowing that Mattie wouldn"t go. Not now. And how could I ask her to? I thought again knowing that Mattie wouldn"t go. Not now. And how could I ask her to? I thought again If only I knew a little more . . . If only I knew a little more . . .
"Mike? Are you - "
"It"s very wonderful," I said. In my mind"s eye I could see her standing in the kitchen, drawing the kinked telephone cord through her fingers, her legs long and coltish below her denim shorts. I could see the shirt she was wearing, a white tee with a yellow duck paddling across the front. "I hope Lindy had the good grace to sound ashamed of herself." I circled the tee-shirt I"d drawn.
"She did. And she was frank enough to kind of . . . well, disarm me. She said the Whitmore woman talked to her early last week. Was very frank and to the point, Lindy said. I was to be let go immediately. If that happened, the money, computer equipment, and software Devore funnelled into the library would keep coming. If it didn"t, the flow of goods and money would stop immediately. She said she had to balance the good of the community against what she knew was wrong . . . she said it was one of the toughest decisions she ever had to make . . . "
"Uh-huh." On the pad my hand moved of its own volition like a planchette gliding over a Ouija board, printing the words PLEASE CAN"T I PLEASE. "There"s probably some truth in it, but Mattie . . . how much do you suppose Lindy makes?"
"I don"t know."
"I bet it"s more than any three other small-town librarians in the state of Maine combined."
In the background I heard Ki: "Can I talk, Mattie? Can I talk to Mike? Please can"t I please?"
"In a minute, hon." Then, to me: "Maybe. All I know is that I have my job back, and I"m willing to let bygones be bygones."
On the page, I drew a book. Then I drew a series of interlocked circles between it and the duck tee-shirt.
"Ki wants to talk to you," Mattie said, laughing. "She says the two of you went to the Fryeburg Fair last night."
"Whoa, you mean I had a date with a pretty girl and slept through it?"
"Seems that way. Are you ready for her?"
"Ready."
"Okay, here comes the chatterbox."
There was a rustling as the phone changed hands, then Ki was there. "I taggled you at the Fair, Mike! I taggled my own quartermack!"
"Did you?" I asked "That was quite a dream, wasn"t it, Ki?"
There was a long silence at the other end. I could imagine Mattie wondering what had happened to her telephone chatterbox. At last Ki said in a hesitating voice: "You there too." Tiu Tiu. "We saw the snake-dance ladies . . . the pole with the bell on top . . . we went in the spookyhouse . . . you fell down in the barrel! It wasn"t a dream . . . was it?"
I could have convinced her that it was, but all at once that seemed like a bad idea, one that was dangerous in its own way. I said: "You had on a pretty hat and a pretty dress."
"Yeah!" "Yeah!" Ki sounded enormously relieved. "And Ki sounded enormously relieved. "And you you had on - " had on - "
"Kyra, stop. Listen to me." She stopped at once. "It"s better if you don"t talk about that dream too much, I think. To your mom or to anyone except me."
"Except you."
"Yes. And the same with the refrigerator people. Okay?"
"Okay. Mike, there was a lady in Mattie"s clothes."
"I know," I said. It was all right for her to talk, I was sure of it, but I asked anyway: "Where"s Mattie now?"
"Waterin the flowers. We got lots of flowers, a billion at least. I have to clean up the table. It"s a ch.o.r.e. I don"t mind, though. I like ch.o.r.es. We had French toast. We always do on Sundays. It"s yummy, "specially with strawberry syrup."
"I know," I said, drawing an arrow to the piece of bread wearing the beret. "French toast is great. Ki, did you tell your mom about the lady in her dress?"
"No. I thought it might scare her." She dropped her voice. "Here she comes!"
"That"s all right . . . but we"ve got a secret, right?"
"Yes."
"Now can I talk to Mattie again?"
"Okay." Her voice moved off a little.
"Mommy-bommy, Mike wants to talk to you." Then she came back. "Will you bizzit us today? We could go on another picnic."
"I can"t today, Ki. I have to work."
"Mattie never works on Sunday."
"Well, when I"m writing a book, I write every day. I have to, or else I"ll forget the story. Maybe we"ll have a picnic on Tuesday, though. A barbecue picnic at your house."
"Is it long "til Tuesday?"
"Not too long. Day after tomorrow."
"Is it long to write a book?"
"Medium-long."
I could hear Mattie telling Ki to give her the phone.
"I will, just one more second. Mike?"
"I"m here, Ki."